Nearly Reach the Sky Read Free

or at least understand it, and when you discover that complete strangers feel equally passionate about your team it all starts to make sense.
    And, trust me, there’s no shortage of passion at West Ham.
    If you doubt my word, come with me as we step forward in time from a chilly October Saturday in 1967 to a sunny Sunday in the spring of 1991. We are now at Villa Park for an FA Cup semi-final. You’ve already met Di and Sid, of course. And Geoff ’s here in the Trinity Road Stand, too – albeit as a foetus (he won’t be born until November). But let me introduce you to Simon, the best man at our wedding and a relatively new convert to the claret and blue cause. He’s sitting at my right-hand side, enjoying the biggest match he’s ever been to.
    There are just twenty-two minutes gone when Tony Gale muscles Nottingham Forest’s Gary Crosby off the ball directly in front of us. I can hardly believe referee Keith Hackett has given a foul, and I’m astonished when he reaches for his pocket. You can’t give him a yellow card for that! I’m right – it isn’t yellow. It’s red! This is, quite simply, the worst refereeing decision I haveever seen – and I am not alone in my opinion. Even the Forest fans are baffled.
    In the West Ham stands there is nothing but fury. Sitting to my left is my wife. Next to her is my father-in-law. He later admitted that he was completely unaware his beloved daughter even knew the sort of language she came out with at that moment.
    As a second division team – albeit one that was destined for promotion weeks later – we were very much the underdogs against a classy first division outfit managed by the mercurial Brian Clough. It was a tough ask with a full team; now, down to ten men, we had no chance.
    Yet the lads on the pitch dug in, and their devoted followers got behind them. We had the main stand and the Holte End. There were choruses of ‘Bubbles’ coming out of both. The singing was punctuated by frequent, desperate calls of ‘Come On You Irons’. We weren’t asking – we were telling. And our boys responded – getting forward when they could, but then chasing back; all of them throwing themselves into tackles, harrying, fighting for every ball. George Parris even came close to scoring. It was a performance that truly honoured their manager – the awesome Billy Bonds.
    Then the cry that was to dominate the afternoon went up: ‘Billy Bonds’ claret and blue army!’ The response came back, with interest: ‘Billy Bonds’ claret and blue army!’ There was still the occasional burst of ‘Bubbles’, but this wasn’t a day to fade and die. Increasingly, the claret and blue army chant took hold.
    At half time, astonishingly, we were still 0–0. Out came the cigarettes and the Murray Mints. Some tried to convince themselves we could yet get out of this with a draw, and then stuff Forest in the replay. I don’t think anyone really believed it, though.
    Clough certainly didn’t. He reorganised his team during the break, making sure their eleven would out-pass our ten rather than engage in the sort of street fight that was clearly suiting us.
    In our heart of hearts, we all knew what was coming – and we steeled ourselves for it. We weren’t any old army: we were Billy Bonds’ ultra-loyal claret and blue army, and we weren’t going to go quietly. When the whistle blew to start the second half, every West Ham supporter in the ground was standing. And then it started in earnest.
    Billy Bonds’ claret and blue army! The martial rhythm that underpinned the words was provided by stamping feet and clapping hands. Billy Bonds’ claret and blue army! You put your shoulders back, stuck out your chest, declaimed your allegiance and waited for the response. Which always came. Billy Bonds’ claret and blue army! And so it went on, the volume increasing slightly with every repetition.
    When the same Gary Crosby who had been involved in the incident that had sparked the outrage